Sacred to the Memory
by Antoniaeast
Summary: A series of graveside confessions.
1. Remus

1. Remus

_Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep_

_Do not stand at my grave and weep,_

_I am not there, I do not sleep._

_I am a thousand winds that blow,_

_I am the diamond glints on snow._

_I am the sunshine on ripened grain,_

_I am the gentle autumn's rain._

_When you awaken in the morning's hush, _

_I am that swift, uplifting rush_

_Of quiet birds in circled flight._

_I am the soft star that shines at night._

_Do not stand by my grave and cry,_

_I am not there, I did not die._

_Mary Elizabeth Frye._

November 1981

Mrs Mary Leighton knelt by her husband's grave. The earth had not yet been covered by grass; the rectangular patch looked bare. Raw, she thought, like her heart. She ached with the loss of him. As she placed her hand tenderly on the soil, the glint of her wedding ring caught her eye. A simple gold band, yet, to her, it had meant so much. With the years, her flesh had grown around it, so that the ring had become impossible to take off; had she wished to remove it, it would have to be sawn from her finger. Her hand clenched into a fist, throwing into relief the blue veins that had sprung up below her knuckles. She would never cut her wedding ring, no matter how hard it bit into her; when the time came, she'd be buried wearing it. She'd be buried here, in this churchyard, in this very plot. A tear slid down her face. She'd cried a lot since she'd heard the awful news; she had only been told a few weeks before, but it seemed a lifetime ago. A lifetime in which the reality of the at first incomprehensible news had brutally sunk in: her husband had been killed in a gas explosion, along with a dozen others. It was such a stupid way for him to have died.

She breathed deeply, trying to ease the lump that had risen in her chest, and that threatened to suffocate her. The pointlessness of it overwhelmed her. Bob had merely been unlucky, walking down the street at just the wrong time on his way to the annual reunion of his old army regiment. Over forty years ago, her husband had gone to war, and, having escaped the bombs and bullets in his youth, he'd been killed in his old age by an exploding pipe.

She wrenched her gaze from the grave, and her eyes fell on the mounded earth to her right. The young couple from the other end of the village had died the day before her husband did. Another terrible business; they'd both been killed in a fire that had destroyed their house. She hadn't known them very well; they had kept to themselves, but she'd seen them a few times. Young. They had been younger than her own children, and with a baby, too, an adorable little boy with a shock of dark hair and beautiful eyes. She remembered smiling indulgently at the pretty, red-haired mother once as the young woman grappled the lollipop from her child's hand in the local shop, and another time she'd watched the family walking together, the husband carrying the little one, his other arm wrapped around his wife's shoulders. Mary sighed. Life was cruel; at least her Bob had been 68, although that didn't help much at the moment. She closed her eyes. Apparently, the baby hadn't been badly hurt and had been farmed out to relatives. It wasn't the same, though, she thought, poor little mite. He wouldn't remember his parents. Mrs. Stoker at the Post Office had said that she'd heard the mother had saved the boy's life, using her body to shield him from the flames. It wouldn't surprise her if it were true. A mother's love was very fierce.

A hand dropped on her shoulder, and Mary turned to look up at her eldest daughter, whose face was tired and concerned.

"Come on, Mum. I've done some supper."

Mary meekly followed her daughter out through the gate and down the path that led to her cottage.

A figure had been watching the two women and, as soon as they were gone, left the seat facing the War Memorial and approached the double grave.

"What am I doing here?" The young man muttered.

He was only in his twenties, but his hair was already peppered with grey. His face was pale and had the haunted, weary look of the young in whose eyes is encapsulated a century's worth of sorrow. He stood looking down at the piles of earth in silence.

"It was the full moon last night, Prongs," he finally whispered in a hoarse, cracked voice that sounded rusty and out of use.

The full moon. And for the first time in years, he had spent it alone, howling for his pack.

Throughout the news of the deaths, the realisation of the betrayal, and the cold-blooded murder, he had remained upright and impassive. His eyes had been dry during the funerals and memorial service, during the period in which his entire world had exploded, and its torn fragments had cascaded to his feet like blood soaked confetti, mingled with the pieces of his still-beating heart. But now, the steely shred of self control which had been pinning him together suddenly snapped.

Remus Lupin sank onto the damp grass like a man destroyed. He had felt a surge of jealousy when the younger woman had reached out to comfort her mother. There was no one to offer him solace. His parents were dead, had died at the hand of Voldemort several years before, their years of self-imposed exile from the wizarding world - his fault - had not saved his Muggle-born mother and his pureblood father. Lily, the woman who had mothered him, who had mothered all of them, not just Harry, was dead. James, who had discovered his secret and transformed his life, who had been a husband and a father and one of his best friends, was dead. He and Lily were lying here lifeless under this soil. Peter, the one person who had ever envied him, poor, stupid, loyal Peter, had (It's interesting to see how Remus misjudged Peter. If he's the same Peter as your earlier story, he's not truly loyal, but I can see how Remus would think so. Eeeeeenteresting.) The major factor here is that Remus thinks that Peter was so incensed by Sirius's betrayal of the Potters that he hunted him down, at the cost of his own life. not even been granted a grave. And Sirius...Sirius, who could make them all laugh, even during the darkest of times, Sirius, who had said he was prepared to die for the Potters, Sirius, who they had believed the most loyal of all, Sirius had betrayed and murdered them and left Remus to die the slow and painful death of living.

"He'll spend the rest of his miserable life in Azkaban, James. He'll never leave, never be let out. But it's too good for him. He's not good enough for Azkaban. He deserves to..."

He trailed off, unnerved by his own uncharacteristic outburst. An image of Sirius, the liveliest person he'd ever known, shackled, contained, imprisoned, swam before his eyes. He saw the man he'd believed to be his friend captured inside himself, being driven to insanity, as all inmates of the wizard prison eventually were, and was furious at the rush of sympathy and sadness that the picture produced. For the millionth time since it had happened, a fundamental part of himself rejected the idea that Sirius could have committed such an atrocity. He knew Sirius; Moony knew Padfoot. Sirius had always hated the Dark Side; he was the most open person Remus knew. Had thought he knew. He forced himself to picture Sirius bowing to Voldemort and calling him Master, imagined a Death Eater, torturing a Muggle child, to pull back his hood (This sounds like Sirius is torturing the child to make him/her pull back Sirius's hood. Is that what you want?) does it work better with the commas? I just mean that he is picturing a Death Eater that is torturing a kid, and Remus sees the Death Eater pull back his hood - and it's Sirius, laughing.and reveal Sirius's laughing face. He saw Sirius's expression of satisfaction and glee when he betrayed Lily and James.

And Harry. Sirius had betrayed Harry, his own godson. A memory, one of hundreds, cut through Remus.

"_James? Lily?" _

_Remus stepped through the door and was hit at once by the warmth of the Potters' cottage after the cold night air of December. The room was brightly lit_ _and seemed to him a haven, where all was safe, comfortable, and happy. He looked around for his friends. Instead of James and Lily, however, he saw Sirius, sitting uncharacteristically still in an armchair by the fire._

"_Sirius, what...?" Remus began, only to be stopped by his friend silently lifting a finger to his lips. He tipped his head towards the sofa, which faced the fire with its back to the door. Remus crept forward and leaned over it. He smiled in amusement and affection at the sight. James's eyes were closed, his head tilted back, and he was snoring gently with his mouth open. Lily made a prettier sleeper. She was curled up_ _with her head resting on her husband's chest, her hair spilling across both of their shoulders like a vibrant shawl. He had his arm drawn loosely around her. The worry that infiltrated day-to-day life had seeped from their faces, and both of them looked innocent and youthful._

"_We need a camera," Remus murmured, smiling at the peaceful scene._

"_Well, yes, I did think of taking a photo, but..." Sirius gestured at the bundle on his chest. With his luminous green eyes shut, Harry looked more like his father than ever, although not yet five months old. _

"_It's a shame he sleeps like James," Remus commented, taking in the baby's open mouth and snuffly breathing._

"_The main thing is that he's asleep_ _for the first time in ages," Sirius pointed out, smiling down at his tiny godson_ _and smoothing back his already scruffy black hair. Harry stirred, and Sirius drew the baby closer to him, cradling him in his arms and rocking him gently. _

Had that affection been fake? It must have been. Sirius had delivered Harry to what should have been death.

"I thought I knew him." Remus' breath was ragged; pressure was building inside his chest. He longed to howl, to release some of the pain. He longed to kill, but how could revenge and inflicted suffering ease this pent up agony?

Harry had been taken to his aunt's. Knowing how much it would hurt to see the baby among strangers, to be reminded of his parents by every black hair, by each emerald eye, it had been with trepidation that Remus had knocked on the door of number four, Privet Drive. He had been prepared for the pain of remembrance, but not for the agony of being told, by an irate walrus of a man, that he was not, under any circumstances, to come near his family. Harry would never be allowed to associate with "freaks" such as Remus. Dumbledore had explained the necessity of Harry remaining with his aunt and uncle, and the last tatter of Remus's frayed hope had been shredded.

He vaguely noticed that rain had started to fall, its savage drops suiting his desolate mood. Water was darkening the earth in front of him. He couldn't believe that all that was left of Lily and James were these blank graves, which would later be marked by a stone. He'd see to that. But how could they be cast onto an inanimate slab of cold marble? They were not names and dates, but people, his friends, his only family. Where had their life forces gone? What had happened to the amused sparkle that shone in Lily's eyes? Could James's exasperating habit of running his hand through his hair just vanish with him?

How could he explain to anyone what they had been? Not just to him, but to all around them: their son, their friends, their acquaintances. You could write "beloved" on a stone, but how did you show people that these two had inspired love in so many, that at least two people would have died for them? And one of them had. And the other wished he had, as death seemed so preferable to life. The one who they had believed loved them most had sent them to their deaths, and Remus was disgusted that he even shared this earth with him. It all came back to Sirius.

"Did you know?" Remus asked quietly. Had Lily realised, as Voldemort pointed his wand at her, that she would die because of Sirius? Did James have time to work out that Sirius must have betrayed him? The one man they knew would never tell, the person who swore he would withstand any torture to protect them, callously handed their lives away. Why did they have to choose him? Why not Peter, why not Remus himself?

He knew why. He knew that James and Sirius had always been the closest friends. He had understood; they were so alike, especially when they were younger. They were the pranksters, the daredevils, the ingenious inventors. The stars. He had been the researcher, the prefect, the moderator. He had also been the mystery, the problem, the reason. The werewolf. Peter had been the indulged tag-along, the loyal side-kick, the bumbling friend. The applause.

"We all misjudged Peter," he mumbled. Each remembered joke, derogatory comment, every time he'd laughed at, rather than with, Peter, clouded him with shame. Peter had shown more Gryffindor courage than he ever had. So much more, in the end, than Sirius.

"He loved you two." Peter the hero. Peter had shown just how faithful a friend he was. Foolish Peter, who had tried to duel Sirius, even though he'd barely mastered the disarming spell.

Remus's sobs were quietening. The rain was bucketing down heavily, as if in an attempt to wash the bleak landscape away. Remus wished he could be washed from this earth, into a friendly oblivion. His thin robes were plastered to his skin, his hair slicked and dripping into his eyes. Cold was creeping up inside him, yet he couldn't face moving from his position.

"It's all over now. You did it; Harry did it. He's famous throughout the world." He smiled weakly. "Pretty impressive for fifteen months old." He thought of the parties and celebrations that were still rife, two weeks after Voldemort disappeared. He hadn't attended any; he felt resentful towards people who were happy. "I don't think Voldemort's gone for good, but...well, I don't know. At the moment, it's what you wanted, a safe future for Harry."

Harry was what was important; James and Lily had stressed this when explaining their decision to hide. They had hated cowering from Voldemort. Yet it was Harry's future they wanted to ensure. At least there was some vestige of the goodness, love and laughter that had been James and Lily left in the world. Harry still had a future ahead of him. Reluctantly, Remus stood up, and attempted (with neither conviction nor success) to brush the mud from his drenched robes. Whether he liked it or not, he also had a future. It was one that contained many lonely full moons and many more painful memories. Nevertheless, he turned his back on the darkening graveyard and walked into it.


	2. Petunia

May 1982

Petunia hated trains. Public transport was so, well, public. Just about anyone could walk into your carriage and sit near you. And the sorts of people that used them! On the two hour journey, Petunia had been subjected to the company of a teenage girl who spent most of the time fishing about in a grubby make-up bag, an unkempt man in a dubious coat who was absorbed by what appeared to be a highly amusing book - his sudden bouts of laughter had startled both Dudley and Harry into crying - and a middle-aged mother who had given up attempting to discipline her uncontrollable, rampaging squall of children, and whose magazine, glossily detailing the sumptuous wedding of a soap star, Petunia had surreptitiously tried to read over her shoulder. Nor was Petunia at all sure quite why she had chosen to spend the beautiful May day in a train with two toddlers, especially when Mr and Mrs Ramsay next door had taken to having the most enthralling arguments with their kitchen window open, under which Petunia spent copious amounts of time gardening.

Nevertheless, once Vernon was safely off to work, Petunia had packed Dudley and Harry into their double pushchair and caught a taxi to the station. Almost three hours later, she had reached the place that she'd never been before, but which had been increasingly on her mind, as though it were calling to her. She frowned as she trundled the buggy through the gates; she'd had to ask directions from the most appalling old busy-body at the Post Office, who had looked at Harry very curiously, much to Petunia's displeasure. Inspecting the quiet, green churchyard, she headed briskly to a corner where the stones were unweathered and stopped beside a certain grave. She was here. It was true, then. The proof was before her, black and white, engraved into marble, buried but not hidden in the earth. It was the first time she'd seen the place. They hadn't wanted to mix with 'them' at the funeral. She read the inscription on the gravestone and sniffed. Put up by one of 'their lot', no doubt. She scanned it again for any sign of abnormality. She was still unsure as to what she was doing here. She knew she didn't want to be here, and that Vernon would be perplexed and annoyed if he found out that she'd come. And yet, here she was. Dudley, thankfully, was asleep. She gazed lovingly at her blonde, perfectly spherical two-year-old son. Her eyes slid to Harry and met, with a shock, Lily's unblinking gaze staring back at her. She wished the boy didn't have her sister's blasted eyes. She turned back to the pale stone.

_Lily's eyes were lit up with excitement. The small figure was bouncing on the kitchen's tiled floor. At each spring into the air, her hair fanned gloriously out like the sun's rays, only to flop about her face when she hit the ground. On top of her head, the fringe that was being grown out was tied in a top-knot, which bobbed up and down like a guttering flame as she jumped. The cause of these high spirits was the fact that it was Lily's fifth birthday. The table was laid, and, at one end, gaudy paper and mysterious shapes formed an enticing pile of brightly-wrapped parcels. _

"_Come on, Lily, sit down and eat your breakfast, then you can open some presents," Mrs Evans tried to persuade her daughter. _

"_Don't want any breakfast!" Lily giggled, mid-bounce._

_Already seated at the table, Petunia tutted loftily._

"_Come on, birthday girl!" Mr Evans cajoled, scooping Lily up and spinning her in his arms while she giggled madly, before plonking her down on her chair, where she started munching the honey sandwich that had been put on her plate._

"_That's right, eat your breakfast, and you'll grow tall and strong." _

_  
Lily paused._

"_Like Petunia?" She pronounced her sister's name properly, enunciating all the syllables._

"_Just like Petunia."_

_Petunia, meanwhile, had finished her bowl of cereal_ _and had slid from her seat to examine the presents. A scowl was screwing up her face._

"_What's the matter with you, Miss Grumpyknickers ?" Mr Evans asked his elder daughter._

"_Lily's got three more presents than I did." Petunia had celebrated her seventh birthday in February, three months before._

_Mr and Mrs Evans exchanged pained glances._

"_Darling, yours were bigger," Mrs Evans said. "Your bicycle was a big present. Lily's got three little ones instead." _

_Petunia pouted._

"_But it's not fair; Mrs Barnsley's given Lily a present. She didn't give me one."_

"_Petunia, Mrs Barnsley hadn't come to live next door when it was your birthday," Mr Evans said._

"_But Lily still got more presents," Petunia moaned. Her lips began to quiver. _

_Mrs Evans slipped out of the room._

_At the table, Lily stopped eating._

"_Presents now?" she asked. Mr Evans eyed Lily's half-eaten breakfast._

"_Not till you've finished your sandwich, poppet." He turned back to Petunia._

"_All gone," said Lily, laughing. Mr Evans turned around again._

"_Now, Lily, I..." He took in the empty plate. He scanned the table, and then checked the floor beneath Lily's chair._

"_Lily, where's your sandwich?"_

"_Gone!"_

_Mr Evans searched Lily's person for the remains of the food, but his small daughter was right; the sandwich had indeed gone._

"_All right then, Lily, when Mummy comes in you can open your presents."_

_Petunia's frown grew._

_The door opened, and Lily rushed to her mother, squealing. Mrs Evans held something behind her back._

"_For me?" Lily was dancing about. _

"_No, this is for my special big girl." Mrs Evans handed a present to Petunia with a flourish. "Happy Unbirthday!" _

_Petunia reached out for her present, as Lily was called over to her father to begin unwrapping her pile of gifts. She unwrapped it slowly, making it last, unlike Lily, who was tearing paper and scattering it about the kitchen gleefully. It was a book called "The Green Fairy Book." Petunia looked at it, disappointed. She had to read books at school. _

"_This was mine when I was a girl," Mrs Evans was saying, flicking through the pages. "I used to love the stories, and always...oh yes, Lily, darling, it is pretty. Wasn't that nice of Mrs Barnsley?" _

_Petunia eyed the rag doll that Lily had brandished in front of her mother and watched sourly as both her parents made a fuss over opening a large cardboard box, which contained the present from Granny and Grandpa. She left the room; her parents wouldn't notice. They didn't care about her. They only loved Lily. She didn't want to stand by and watch Lily get all the attention. In the bedroom she shared with her sister, Petunia sat on her bed and glared at the fairy book. It had a material green cover, with no pictures. The cover was faded. It wasn't even a new present!_

"_Petunia, are you going to come down?" _

_She ignored her mother_ _and turned back to the book. _

"_There were once a King and Queen who had two daughters. The first daughter was tall and fair, but the youngest daughter was lively and beautiful, with hair that shone like the sun at noon, and eyes that shone like the stars at night. She was so happy and pretty that everybody in the Kingdom loved her. Now, the wicked elder sister grew very jealous of the young Princess..."_

_Petunia ripped the page out of the book_ _and crumpled it up into a ball, before hurling the book across the room._

"_Petunia?" _

_Lily was standing in the doorway, a delighted expression on her face, having run up to share some new treasure with her sister._

"_Look what I got!"_

_Lily bowed her head to show her the Alice-band she was wearing. It was velvet, with LILY written in different colours on it, and decorated with flowers, of the type that was worn by some of the popular girls in Petunia's class at school, and which Petunia had coveted for weeks._

"_That looks really babyish," Petunia snapped._

_Lily's face fell._

Bitterness had caused Petunia's breath to quicken. Her hands were clenched in furious fists. Lily had always been the golden girl; she had been the clever one, the pretty one, the happy one. Obviously, her parents had loved her far more than Petunia, and it had been Lily's fault they died, getting their family involved with that lunatic murderer.

Lily had discovered the fairy book, years later, gathering dust in the bookshelf. She'd loved the stories of beautiful younger sisters, peasant girls who had married handsome princes, or enchanted princesses who had been rescued by the courageous younger sons of various millers. She'd expanded her collection of fairy tales and had seemed to her sister to prefer dreaming about them to being a part of the real world. Of course, soon after that, Lily's life had left the real world. She'd been the one who was magical, and although Petunia had ever since thought of that world with a horrified shudder, a part of her had always been bitter that again it was Lily who had that particular talent.

Petunia had avoided having anything to do with that world, although she'd met many of 'them' at the wedding. The wedding where Lily had married her handsome prince. It was such - such a _fairy tale_ . Petunia's eyes focused on the grave in front of her. How could she still be jealous of someone who was dead? And yet, the years of bitterness and resentment were still there. Lily had swanned off, got herself murdered, and left Petunia to nurture her son, when she had Dudley to look after. Petunia scowled at Harry, who was still sitting motionless in his seat. She would never forgive Lily for forcing her to house a budding...one of 'them'. Petunia's bony jaw stiffened with resolve. She would do all she could to stop Harry developing...'that'. She was sure that if her parents had indulged Lily less, her sister would have remained normal.

"Happy Birthday, Lily," she said, glowering at the headstone.

Dudley awoke with a start and began to howl, which set Harry off.

"Diddy Duddykins, don't cry," cooed Petunia, fishing in her bag for some sweets to pacify her son.

"Stop crying, you horrible child!" she snarled at Harry.

Walking quickly out of the churchyard, she didn't turn to look back. She'd be back in Little Whinging in time to put Vernon's supper on.


	3. Molly

May 1993

Mary Leighton visited the churchyard every day, even if it was only for five minutes of calm and fond reflection. Time had healed the old wounds, but it had left scars. Still, she had her health, grandchildren, and the Women's Institute to keep her going. Nevertheless, she always spent an hour or two a week clearing the moss from Bob's stone. For many years, the now-marked graves to the right lay neglected. She put down to senility and overactive imagination the strange figures she once thought she saw clustered there on Halloween. However, a decade or so after the death of the young couple, Mary began to notice changes in the gravestone. It looked – no, definitely was - cleaner. Flowers had been planted around the grave, which appeared well-tended. One afternoon, Mary was removing the now-dead flowers her grandchildren had placed on their Grandpa's grave, when she saw a red-haired woman approach the Potters' grave, wearing a rather odd outfit. She was sure the lady wasn't from the village and thought, given the similarity in hair colour, that she could have been a relative of the wife, though the visitor was too young to have been her mother, and probably too old to have been her sister.

Mrs Weasley knelt in front of the grave and briskly began to clear away the weeds.

"I do hope Harry's all right," she muttered to herself as she worked. "Percy's letter - of course, he's the only one who tells me anything - said that Hermione was Petrified, the poor dear. Of course, she'll be fine; Percy said that the mandrakes shouldn't be much longer in maturing. He seemed terribly upset, Percy. I never knew he was so fond of Hermione. But Ron and Harry must be devastated; it's such a shame. I feel so much better knowing they've got a nice little friend like her. Goodness knows, those boys need a maturing influence on them. Flying a car to school, indeed! But what Harry needs most of all is a bit of mothering." Here, she paused and looked up at the gravestone sadly. "Yes, he does need a mother," she continued. "I did try this summer. It was such a pleasure to have him with us; he was so polite, and after everything he's been through...

"And it seems he's having a difficult time of it this year, too. Got himself into an awful mess playing Quidditch and had to regrow some of his bones. And Percy wrote that most of the school believe that he's the Heir of Slytherin and is setting some sort of monster on the students. What nonsense. Honestly, children can be so cruel. He must feel so lonely. Of course, Ron is still his friend, and Fred and George think it's terribly funny - those boys treat everything as a joke. But I hope it helps Harry, and at least they are showing that they don't believe it's him. It's such an awful thing as well, someone attacking all the Muggle-borns. Ginny's been taking it very badly. I never realised she was so sensitive. It may be that she thinks so much of Harry, that people blaming him is upsetting her. She could barely talk to him all summer; she scarcely even said a word when he was in the room. The boys teased her about it, but that's what brothers are like; they didn't mean any harm by it. I did feel sorry for the poor dear, though. I know what it feels like; when I was her age I had a huge crush on one of our house prefects. He was ever so dishy. But I wish Ginny wouldn't get so nervous around Harry. The only way he'll notice her is if she speaks to him. Then, in a few years time...ah well, Ginny'll sort herself out, and she and Harry are both far too young for that sort of thing at the moment.

"I do hope they're all safe. I keep telling myself that Dumbledore won't let anything happen to them, and they've got a brilliant Defence Against the Dark Arts professor who'll protect them, but it is hard not to worry. Arthur said that Fudge arrested Hagrid; apparently, he was expelled for opening the Chamber of Secrets last time. But it couldn't have been Hagrid. I knew him when he was apprenticed to the gamekeeper when I was at Hogwarts. He and Charlie spent hours talking about dragons together, and he's very fond of Harry and devoted to Dumbledore. I can't help thinking whoever it really is is still out there. I should have had them home this Christmas, but we hadn't realised how bad it was, and we hadn't seen Bill in almost two years. I don't suppose Ron would leave Harry in the holidays, anyway. Poor Harry, all he wants is to be a normal boy with a normal family. He seemed so much happier after some time at home with the boys. He started acting like a child. I wish I knew him better; he does so need a mother. I'll see if I can have him to stay with us for a few weeks over the summer, I can't bear the thought of him stuck with those awful Muggles."

"I'm sorry," she said absently to the gravestone. "I know that she's his aunt, and I suppose she must love him in her own way, but Fred, George and Ron said that they'd locked him in his room and were starving him. He deserves so much better. At least he gets some solid meals inside him during term time."

She sat back on her haunches and viewed her handiwork.

"Of course, this would be much easier with magic," she murmured, producing a sponge and rubbing at the stone. "But there are far too many Muggles about. I hope you don't mind me doing this, but after hearing about how those Muggles treat him and having him at the Burrow last summer, I felt I wanted to do something for him, other than sending him a jumper at Christmas. This was all I could think of. I don't know if he knows about this place, or whether he'd want to come if he did. I shouldn't think 'they'd' bring him. I daresay it's a bit morbid for a twelve-year-old boy. But one day he'll visit here, I'm certain, and for the meantime, I'll make sure that if anyone does come, it's reasonably well-kept. There." With that, she stood up, the sponge seeming to vanish. Mrs Weasley glanced about her and shook her head, slightly puzzled..

"Molly, you're becoming more like that ghoul in the attic every day; you were talking to a gravestone." And, with that, she bustled away.


	4. Sirius

August 1993

The balmy summer days drifted into warm August nights. During the long evenings, the churchyard became a popular place for the teenagers of the village to meet, talk and furtively drink the beer sold in the local shop. It was almost one o'clock in the morning, when a group of blurry-eyed youths clumsily climbed the low wall of the churchyard. As their raised voices were heard moving off down the street, a black, four-legged shadow detached itself from that of the War Memorial and slunk towards the Potters' graves.

"Oh, James." The dog had changed into a man. Or what had once been a man. Now, he was a skeleton covered by a stretch of skin, fathomless eyes staring out from a mass of matted, elbow-length hair. The croaked words had been wrenched from his chest. He sank to the grass, holding onto the gravestone for support. With his left hand, he traced the inscribed letters.

"Oh, Lily...James." His head bowed, his shoulders heaving, he clutched the cool stone even tighter, as if he could somehow control himself through this grip on a physical reality.

He'd known they were dead. He'd seen their lifeless bodies every day for the last twelve years. The memory of that night had played through his mind almost ceaselessly and with aching clarity. The house destroyed. The Dark Mark mocking him from above. Hagrid had emerged, tears glistening like stars in his wiry beard, carefully carrying Harry, shielding him with his greatcoat. The baby's cries had rung in the background of the scene, to be endlessly replayed in Sirius's head. Sirius had taken in Harry's bleeding forehead. He had felt weak with relief that his godson was alive. But then, he'd realised that he had not seen Lily or James. Ignoring Hagrid's shout of warning, he'd opened the door, knowing with sickening dread what he would find, yet knowing he had to go in, hoping desperately that he wouldn't find them...and then he'd seen James in the hall, where he'd tried to hold Him off. It had felt so unreal, staring down at his best friend's murdered body. He should have broken down then, fallen to the ground and started sobbing. But he had carried on. The bedroom. He'd slowly looked down and encountered Lily's emerald eyes, not even dulled by death, where she'd lain on the floor. He'd bolted from the house, only then realising he was crying. His tears had mingled with the rain. At first, the sorrow, the immense grief, had left no space for any other emotion. Sirius had submitted numbly to Hagrid's clumsy comfort.

"_Give Harry to me, Hagrid; I'm his godfather, I'll look after him." _

_Harry was all he had left of Lily and James; he was the only family Harry had left now. They belonged together._

"_I'm sorry, Sirius, but I've 'ad orders from Dumbledore. Harry's ter come with me. He's ter go ter his aunt an' uncle's."_

_No! Sirius couldn't lose Harry; he was Harry's guardian, it was his duty to look after him. He needed to look after him. _

"_But Lily and James made me his guardian, in the event of their" Oh, Merlin, they were dead, they were dead._

_Hagrid shuffled and looked away. Sirius forced himself to breathe. The parcel tenderly cocooned in Hagrid's arms stirred. Sirius's heart quickened even at the glimpse of the untidy ruffle of hair, which reminded him so poignantly, so painfully of James. Every time he looked upon Harry, would he only see remnants of Lily and James? Even so, the memories hurt, but he wanted them to. He needed to hurt; he needed to remember. And Harry was his best friends' son. It was up to him now to give Harry the childhood he deserved. What every child deserved. Only then did Hagrid's words take full effect._

"_His aunt and uncle? You mean Lily's...but they're Muggles. James told me about them; they're the worst kind of Muggles, always hated Lily, because of her magic. Harry can't live with them; he can't. I won't let you."_

_Hagrid sighed._

"_Dumbledore's orders," he repeated heavily._

"_But they were at the wedding, Hagrid, you must remember. Treated everyone else like they had an extremely contagious disease."_

_Hagrid frowned._

"_I remember," he said shortly, "but Dumbledore'll 'ave 'ad 'is reasons."_

_Sirius opened his mouth to protest, before remembering Peter. He'd go to Dumbledore about Harry later, when people knew the truth about that traitorous little rat. Sirius nodded slowly. He knew what he had to do._

"_Take my bike; you'll get him safe quickest that way." _

_Hagrid looked at him in surprise._

"_Take it! I don't need it anymore."_

_The bike left the ground, and Sirius felt his heart follow, wrenching after Harry as his godson was flown away from him. Sirius turned, his mind set. He wouldn't give in to grief until he'd sorted out Peter. With a POP, he Disapparated. The search had begun._

His mind lingered once more on the hated scene. Even where there were no Dementors to force him to relive the agony of that night, he punished himself. Azkaban had unhinged him that much; he was his own torturer. The memory had often been punctuated by distortions and visions; he had seen James rise up, his face full of disappointment and accusation.

"You killed me, Sirius." James's bewildered voice echoed through Sirius's mind, taking on a harsher tone. "It's your fault we're dead. Your fault. Your fault."

"I didn't mean to, James," Sirius whimpered, sounding like a dog in pain. "I was trying to save you"

"Your fault. Your fault."

Yes, Sirius had known that Lily and James Potter were dead and had been for twelve years. However, a stubborn part of him had harboured something that was not a hope, for all hope had been sucked out of him in Azkaban, but instead a self-delusion, that the deaths of Lily and James were just a part of the nightmare of Azkaban. He had known they were dead, but had not been prepared for the shock of their grave, darkened by twelve years of exposure to wind and rain. The realisation that life had been carrying on for most people as usual, that the world still existed without Lily and James came crashing down on him, and he thought he would break with the pain of it. He had never had a chance to grieve them properly. Lily, with her winning smile, her loving nature. He knew that he would not have allowed James to marry anyone but her. James, his best friend, his partner in crime, his more than brother, for Sirius had felt only an odd sensation in his chest when he'd discovered his brother's death. His blood family had meant nothing to him. In the years when he'd been young and happy, Sirius had had relationships with women, but there had been no 'one' as there had been for James. There should have been time for that later. Instead, Sirius's fulfilling relationship had been with his friends. They were his family. He had even infiltrated the new generation of Potters - Lily had treated him half like a brother, and half like a son. They, along with Remus and Peter, had been the very centre of his world. At the thought of Peter, Sirius shook with wrenching waves of hatred and guilt. Peter had killed them, had ruined his life. Had sent him to Azkaban. He had set out on his hunt, to revenge their deaths, to punish Peter, and had been caught out by the man who he'd thought was his friend. His stupid friend.

"We misjudged Peter, Prongs." It had been a perfect plan, to switch at the last minute and in complete secrecy. Sirius had been prepared to guard their secret to the death, but had wanted to be extra-cautious. He had been so delighted with his idea. He believed he had masterminded a brilliant ruse. Instead, he had masterminded their murder. If it weren't for him, Lily and James would be alive, and Harry would not be in imminent danger now. If only he had persuaded them to use Dumbledore, or even Remus...no, he had trusted Peter and doubted Remus. His remaining friend believed him a traitor and a murderer. Wasn't he? How could he have thought that Remus, REMUS, for Merlin's sake, would go over to the Dark side and betray his friends? Sirius shook himself violently, shaking the thoughts from his mind.

He could not allow himself to think of Remus. He had briefly thought of going to his old friend and trusting him this time with the truth. But trust was a quality that had been savaged by Azkaban. Remus wouldn't believe him; Remus would hand him over to the Dementors, though it would pain him greatly to do so. He had to have Peter; the truth lay with Peter. He had to get to Peter, and he was at Hogwarts. With Harry. Harry was what was at stake. There wasn't enough left of Sirius to matter any more, and besides, he had sworn to protect the Potters, and Harry was the only one to whom he could pay that allegiance. So Sirius, or rather Padfoot, was on his way to Hogwarts to save Harry's life and to commit the murder for which he had spent twelve years in Azkaban. Innocence and friendship no longer mattered.

"I saw him. James, he looks just like you. He's still got the Potter hair." When the boy had turned and caught sight of him in Magnolia Crescent, it had shocked Sirius as much as it had Harry. For there, in front of him, was James as a scrawny thirteen-year-old, broomstick in hand. It had been a wholesome image, not one of death, guilt and blame, and it was one that had fuelled Sirius this far on his journey. It was still a long way to Scotland, though.


	5. Peter

A/N: This update is for **redireas **for being such a nice reviewer. Ok, pretty much my only reviewer. That's all right, I don't write for the reviews, but thanks redireas, you make me want to upload more!

June 1994

Peter Pettigrew was dead. At least officially. Only a very few people knew that the fourth member of the old gang was still alive. Unfortunately, those few included his former best friends, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, not to mention the Boy Who Lived and, he assumed by now, Albus Dumbledore. It was imperative that he remain untraced, which was why he found himself heading from Scotland to Albania. On foot. As a rat. Peter liked to stretch his legs by assuming human form, but could only do so at night and in Muggle districts, such as the one he found himself wandering through one evening, happy not to be a rodent for a few brief hours. As a rule, he avoided populated areas, but the village was sleepy and rural; there would be no one awake to spot him. Besides, it was an all-Muggle settlement. He wondered vaguely how he knew this and felt a memory tugging at his brain. It suddenly clicked as he passed a rather dilapidated pub. "The Swan and Three". Peter realised why the village, with its quiet lanes and small shops, was so familiar. It was where Lily and James had lived, all those years ago. They had lived on the outskirts, at the other end of the village, which was why he hadn't recognised it earlier, but he remembered the pub. He, Sirius, James and Remus had visited it a few times before the Fidelius Charm was cast, and James wasn't allowed out in the village any more.

On an impulse, he turned right and transformed into a rat to slip under the great graveyard gates that stood beyond the pub. The grave was tucked into a corner.

_In Loving Memory of Lily and James Potter._

Peter stared at the engraved letters and, not for the first time, felt a cold stab of guilt. He was genuinely sorry they were dead. He had not wanted to kill his best friend, for Merlin's sake.

"But you see, James, it was me or you."

Peter's whispered voice was calm. Remus and Sirius's ridiculous accusations of the evening of his discovery echoed in his mind.

_"Then you should have died, as we would have done for you!"_

Would they have? Would they have died for silly, stupid Peter Pettigrew, their simpering, sycophantic shadow? Peter laughed, and the noise rang hollow and unnerving through the empty graveyard. They may have been prepared to die for each other, but he didn't believe any of them would have sacrificed themselves for him. They didn't think him worth that; he knew it.

He was used to thinking in such clinical terms, weighing one person's life against another's. It had been surprisingly easy for him to become a Death Eater. Thinking back, the Sorting Hat had suggested Slytherin, but he'd been scared of the mean-looking figures sitting at the Slytherin house table and had pleaded not to be put there. He'd been haunted by that decision. On one level, he'd always been passionately grateful to his friends for including him, for making him one of their gang. He'd served the detentions by their side, he'd acted as a look-out for every prank, he'd even learned to become an Animagus, a skill that had served him so well. But even though he'd enjoyed his status as their friend, he had been grimly aware that his position was that of the bumbling, adoring sidekick. He knew that members of the school mocked him behind his friends' backs. Moreover, his friends had mocked him continuously to his face. He had never been taken seriously. And he had proved what a mistake that was, he thought, with savage triumph.

It had been going so perfectly. The Dark Lord should have ascended after finishing off the baby. Peter had felt bad about the baby. He could convince himself that James deserved what he'd got, but the baby was, well, a baby. Supposedly defenceless. But still, it was not like he would have had to kill it; that was His task. A task which had horrendously back-fired and resulted in Peter spending twelve years as a rat, being kept in that boy's pocket and - he shuddered at the memory - being called Scabbers. That wasn't meant to happen. It had been the best and worst day of his life, that day that Sirius had unwittingly played straight into Peter's hands and talked the Potters into making him their Secret-Keeper. A weak and talentless thing, they'd thought him. Peter had relished the idea of You-Know-Who killing them, mocking them with the fact that they'd been betrayed by their useless friend. And then, the Dark Lord would have ruled England, with him, Peter, as his trusted and proven servant. It was a position that Peter had created for himself, something that he had used his own intelligence and cunning to get; he would bask in his own glory, not that of his friends.

But it had all gone so wrong. Harry Potter, the cursed child, had survived, forced You-Know-Who out of his body and Peter into hiding. And it had been worse that evening, with the boy acting all noble and James-like. Peter shuddered at the unpleasant memory. He'd had to beg. He didn't mind that - he was used to begging - it was the cold light of malice in both Sirius and Remus's eyes that disturbed him. And he thought he'd dealt with Sirius so effectively. Sirius had been an utter sight, so different from the sneering, smirking, smiling, handsome Sirius that Peter had carried in his mind. This Sirius had been damaged, tortured and haunted. Peter felt a surge of pleasure at his handiwork. But Sirius had escaped, and the truth was out. Peter was once more a wanted man, and he needed protection. He had only one choice now; he had to find his Master.

It was odd, seeing the graves and knowing that he had done this; that if it weren't for him, these two people would be alive. But if they were alive, it would mean that he had died, rather than betray them. And he had much rather betray them. Still, he sometimes wondered what would have happened had he resisted. If he had stood by his old friendship. His schooldays now seemed like the golden days of his life. Peter cast his mind back, savouring the excitement of the full moon, reliving how it had felt when he'd transformed for the first time, remembering the fun of watching Sirius and James fight Severus Snape. Suddenly, other memories rushed through his mind. Remus, tired and pale after the full moon. James, exhilarated and triumphant after a victorious Quidditch match. Sirius, gleeful and excited, the light of a new prank, bound to get them all in detention, in his eyes. And, later, Lily, smiling as he entered their cottage, sometimes with food on the table, always ready for a kind word or a chat. Life had been warmer then. He remembered the last Christmas he'd spent as a human.

_"Moony!" Sirius, overly exuberant on festive occasions, flung himself on Remus. James, grinning like a madman, rolling his eyes at the capering Sirius, approached Peter._

_"How are you, Pete?"_

_"Oh, fine," Peter answered airily. _

_"Haven't seen you in ages,"_

_"Yes, well, work's been busy." Peter had been acting as a spy for the Dark Lord for six months now. He'd told his friends that he had a new, demanding job, that involved his going away a lot. And they'd believed him; deceiving them had been remarkably easy so far._

_"Well, it's great to see you, mate. Merry Christmas!"_

_Meanwhile, Remus had finally escaped Sirius's clutches. Sirius turned to Peter._

_"Wormtail!"_

_Peter pretended to cower in fright._

_"Oh, you're here," a new voice called. Lily was at the sitting room door, a glowing smile on her face, tiny Harry in her arms. She passed her son to James, who immediately started zooming him through the air._

_"Peter, you look well."_

_'Strange what a diet of Muggle killings will do for you,' Peter thought, hugging his secret to himself and feeling mysterious and pleased with himself. He received Lily's warm, scented hug, before she moved on to Remus. Over Remus's shoulder, however, she caught sight of her husband and Sirius._

_"James!" Her pleasant voice had at once become dangerous and scolding. "Get him down NOW!" _

_Peter's lips twitched, as James, a mock woebegone expression on his face, brought Harry gently down from the ceiling. Lily had her hands on her hips._

_"Stop levitating the baby!"_

_The baby in question didn't seem to mind being levitated; he was grinning in a gummy fashion, as his mother held him protectively to her chest._

_"Can we open our presents now that Moony and Wormtail are here?" Sirius began to plead, assuming his begging expression ("Irresistible to women, Wormtail, old boy.") and jiggling from foot to foot like an excited three-year-old. Under Lily's returning look, Sirius transformed into Padfoot and gazed up at his best friend's wife, making his eyes large as saucers. Lily had difficulty in keeping a straight face._

_"Just one?" James added, grinning slyly at his wife. She stuck her tongue out at him._

_"All right, but lunch is nearly ready." _

_Shaking her head at the resulting war dance in which all four men indulged, Lily moved to the tree._

_"Oooh, me first!" Sirius managed to look as though he was wagging his tail, even when in human form. Peter, by the tree, found a present with his name on and threw it at Sirius' head. For once, his aim was true, prompting much applause and laughter. Sirius unwrapped a very handsome set of dress robes, which he donned, parading up and down the room._

_"She's right, the blue does bring out your eyes," teased Remus, who was reading the card that went with it._

_"She?" Sirius queried._

_"All my love, Linda," Remus read out in explanation._

_"Linda…Linda…" Sirius mused, his face thoughtful._

_"Dear Sirius," read Peter over Remus' shoulder. "Merry Christmas…hope to see you in the New Year for…Merlin!" His eyebrows shot up. Sirius snatched the card, and his puzzled expression cleared._

_"Oh, LINda," he said, enlightened._

_Remus opened several pairs of brightly-coloured woollen socks from Sirius._

_"It must be boring to get books every year," Sirius explained, ignoring the glares from James, Lily and Peter._

_Next, James was handed a small package by Lily. He opened it and gave a whoop, before kissing his wife ecstatically._

_"State of the art Broom Compass," he told the others, examining the gadget with pride. "Look, if you press this button, you get a map of the UK, and this one activates the invisibility booster..."_

_Knowing that once James got onto the topic of brooms, it was hard to get him off, Peter jumped in with a diversionary tactic._

_"What about Harry, shouldn't he get a present?"_

_Lily snorted. _

_"A present? He's got more than the rest of us put together." _

_It was true; the tree looked as though it was precariously balanced atop a mound of presents labelled "To Harry". Excited, James dug around, before extracting a long, thin package. Lily's eyes narrowed._

_"James, you did not get Harry a broomstick. He's five months old!"_

_"Lily, relax," Sirius started. It's not like Harry's never been on a broo…"_

_He stopped short at James's frantic gesturing._

_"It isn't dangerous," James protested, under Lily's disapproving glare. The wrappings revealed a miniature broom, with a large cradle seat. "You see, it's got a balancing charm on it, and it can only go a foot off the ground."_

_He placed Harry in the seat, made sure he was secure, and let the broom move slowly through the air, the baby screaming in delight. Lily sighed, resigned._

_"He'll have broken every bone in his body by the time he's four."_

_"Don't be silly. It took me until I was nine. Anyway, Moony's great at healing spells."_

_Lily shot her husband a venomous look._

_"Moving on," James continued in a hearty voice. "Peter hasn't had anything yet." Again, he rummaged around in the pile of gifts._

_Peter examined the square package before removing the wrapping, making sure not to rip the paper._

_"Before Easter would be good, Wormtail," Sirius commented, as Peter folded the gaudy paper by his side._

_"Just because you unwrap presents like you're digging up a bone."_

_Peter turned to the smart wooden box. He opened it and unfolded a cream-coloured sheaf of parchment, which proclaimed: "Magic on the Move, essentials for the Wizard on the Wing."_

_Inside was a "Travel in style" Travelling cloak, in a pocket of which was a supply of Floo powder in a leather pouch. There was also a compact toiletry kit, an emergency Portkey, a sleeping potion for the Knight Bus, antidotes to Doxy stings and bites from most magical creatures, a face mask and a pair of ear muffs._

_"You seem to be away a lot with your job, so I thought it'd be useful." _

_Peter thanked James with what he hoped was adequate enthusiasm. If only he knew what Peter was really doing, when he said that he'd be away on business. Suddenly, he felt very unsure. Was he doing the right thing? Deep down, he knew he wasn't, but what choice did he have now? He was committed. _

_Sirius and Remus exchanged a look._

_"And now for Lily."_

_Sirius produced a large present._

_"This is from Remus, Peter and me." _

_Peter looked up. He half-remembered Sirius asking him if he wanted to put some money towards a present for Lily, which he had. He didn't even know what it was._

_Remus looked rather guilty. "It's from Sirius and Peter, mainly."_

_Sirius cut in, his voice stern. "It's from all three of us."_

_Peter understood, as did James and Lily. Remus had been unable to find a job after Hogwarts, despite having extremely good NEWTs. No one wanted to employ a werewolf. Subsequently, Remus had very little to live on, yet he was proud and hated having to accept money from James or Sirius, who were both very well-off._

_A gasp from Lily brought Peter's brain back to the matter of the mystery present. It was a fine kitchen clock. However, instead of hands that told the time, it had hands with people's names on them. The hands pointed to where the person was, such as 'home', 'hospital' 'work' 'travelling' or even 'Mortal Peril'. There were hands for Lily, James, Harry, Sirius, Remus and Peter._

_"You can add on extra hands," Remus was explaining._

_"Where did you get this? I've never seen anything like it," Lily enthused, as she enveloped each of them in a tight hug. As Sirius explained about a cousin of his who had one, Peter stared at the 'Peter' hand of the clock. For a panicked moment, he wondered what the clock would read when he was with the Dark Lord, but as there was no position which read 'Death Eater,' he assumed the clock wouldn't betray his secret. Lily, James and Harry's arrows were pointing to 'home' while Sirius, Remus and Peter's pointed to 'visiting'. Peter smiled, pushing the thought of You-Know-Who from his mind. He was on a clock. He was part of a family at Christmas. Just then, Remus sniffed the air and furrowed his brow._

_"Do I smell burning?" _

_Lily pulled out her wand, from which smoke was billowing. Her face fell. _

_"The turkey," she moaned, and raced out of the room._

The graveyard felt even colder after the memory of happy times. Peter frowned. If he hadn't had a choice then, he definitely didn't have one now. There was only one path for him; he had to find his Master. All of a sudden, Peter felt very lost. Why was he doing this? Why had he destroyed the happy family from his memories? Why did he give up love and friendship in return for cruel, cold servitude? He didn't even agree with the Dark Lord. He was pureblood, and Lily had always been a thousand times better at magic than he was. Remus was a half-blood, but he didn't hate him for that. The Muggle killings had given him a surge of power at first, but that had soon begun to turn stale. The truth was that Peter loved and hated Voldemort as he hated and loved himself.

He glared at the silent grave and concentrated on ridding his heart of the residing wisps of love and regret. They would only weaken him. He hardened his voice.

"You thought I was pathetic, Prongs. You never even noticed me, Lily."

They were not worth his sitting in a cold churchyard. Peter got up and moved away, his legs stiff. He'd better transform and find somewhere warm to sleep for what was left of the night. He'd need his strength. It was a long way to Albania.


	6. Severus

A/N: If you've read 'Fathoming the Mind of a Werewolf' then you may recognise some of this.

June 1995

Severus Snape walked through shadows, yet his gait was not his habitual prowl. He could not walk upright and proudly. Instead, he crawled through foliage, his dark robes seeping into the darkness of the night. There, he waited, broken and rasping, until the slinking shapes of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters had melted away, the faint pops of their Disapparition the only noise in the quiet air. When he was sure he was alone, Severus emerged gingerly from his place of concealment (he detested the term hiding), and made his laboured way to the nearby gravestone, which he clutched for support.

He glared down at the weather-stained stone. He felt stained again; he was tainted and corrupted. He was a Death Eater once more, one of the power-hungry, sadistic, slavish mass that served the Dark Lord. At least at heart, he was not one of them. He had been, though, at his initiation so many years ago, until he'd realised the folly of his chosen path. He had been young when he received the mark, still at Hogwarts. 'Yet older than Harry Potter,' he thought, bitterly. It all started with the wretched Potters, and he glared down at the letters on the gravestone, savouring the surges of old hatred. Those letters were what he had left to hate. Those, and the awkward fourteen-year-old boy who had witnessed the return of the Dark Lord just weeks before. Some petty part of himself blamed Potter for what had occurred, although he knew full well that this time, at least, the boy had hardly been at fault. The rational part of his brain knew that it was just as well that Potter had been able to warn Dumbledore of the Dark Lord's repossession of his body, so that Dumbledore could begin to reform his army against him. Yet the emotional, selfish part of Severus Snape argued that if Potter had died, then he, Severus, would not have had to take on his old role as a spy and submerge himself once more into the darkened, despised world that he had hoped he had left for good.

No, Severus had returned, cringing, to his former Master. He was once more involved in a battle. Not only did he have to speak with care and cunning to avoid being caught, but he also had to fight to hide the disdain and loathing he felt as he faced the Dark Lord. It irked Severus that he was not a warrior in the battle. Not for him the glory and recognition that had always belonged to Potter; now, it was saved for his son, the famous Boy Who Lived. Severus, meanwhile, was subjected to suspicion and distrust on both sides. His role was one of subterfuge, one of sly deceit and the acquisition of secrets. It was suited, of course, far more to him than the Potters of the world. Even in his exhausted state, he scoffed. They had no comprehension of the word subtlety, no aptitude for concealment and artfulness, just a misplaced sense of nobility and an intolerable arrogance. The Dark Lord may have been the very heir of Salazar Slytherin himself, but Severus was imbued with enough Slytherin traits to make him a perfect double agent.

It didn't mean he had to like it, though. This evening had been hell. He had known perfectly well what to expect, and he had answered the Dark Lord's call nonetheless. 'And they say that Gryffindors are courageous.' No Gryffindor would have had the ability to manage what he had tonight. Severus sneered at the stone upon which he was still leaning.

"No, Potter, you would have died tonight."

He would have put up a fight, of course, but he would have barrelled into the situation, knowing there was no hope, and been killed. He would have died nobly and bravely, but he would have died, all the same. Whereas Severus was still alive, just. He had dreaded tonight, but at the same time, he had looked forward to it with a sort of grim anticipation. He had known the Dark Lord would call again, and that he would have to respond. He would have to explain why he had not Apparated to his Master's side the first time he felt the Mark burn. He would have to explain why he had been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore as a spy for the Order. He would have to convince the Dark Lord, a Master of Legilimency, that he was loyal to him, and to him alone. He would have to undergo his punishment, which, if by a chance it wasn't death, would be the worst pain he could live through. And he had lived through it. It had been close, but he had survived. That was what Severus Snape did best. He survived. Unlike Potter, who had died too arrogant to believe that one of his friends would betray him, Severus Snape had walked the fine line between life and death for almost two years while spying for Dumbledore, relying on his own wits to see him through.

Seized by an unusual feeling of despair and fatigue, Severus sighed. He was back on the tightrope again.

It had surprised him that the meeting had taken place in the churchyard in which the Potters had been buried. The Dark Lord had deliberately invited his followers to the scene of his defeat and had shown them the graves of Lily and James Potter. Already, there had been some new faces among the group, some who had been too young to participate last time, and some select few who had been contacted by people such as Lucius Malfoy. Following his failure to kill Potter, the Dark Lord had wanted to vanquish all doubts of his vulnerability. He had also desired to illustrate his power, and Snape had been a useful target. Between bouts of pain, Severus had thought how fitting it was that he lay crumpled on the earth which covered Lily and James Potter, before excruciation overtook him once more.

But now, it was over. The sharp agony had dissipated into an aching throb; a little strength was seeping back into Severus' body.

"Did you enjoy the show, Potter?" he whispered to the silent air. "You always liked seeing me in pain."

He let himself sink into memories, drawing vigour from the hatred they aroused within him.

_"Or we could hex you. Now." The Potter boy was glaring at him, as he hovered in the doorway of the train carriage. He attempted to laugh off the threat._

_"I'd like to see you try, Potter!"_

_"Which one shall I try?" Potter pondered, turning to his friends, the prospect of bullying someone lighting up his face. He was standing up now, and had pulled his wand from his pocket. _

_"I don't know," one of them answered. It was the werewolf, Lupin. "There are several quite nasty ones."_

_"You don't know any hexes," he jeered, hoping that he was right, not understanding why this boy would want to hurt him on their first day of school. Potter hadn't even asked his name. _

_"Oh, don't I?" Potter flicked his wand_ _and something exploded in Severus's face, smothering him, making him gag, making him want to wretch. He heard their laughter as he fled the carriage._

_He heard their laughter ringing in his ears. They dogged his every movement; he was rarely safe from their idle taunting._

_"Slimeball Severus!"_

_"No, Snivellus!"_

_"Yeah, slimy, stinking Snivellus."_

_"Wipe your nose, Snivellus."_

_"Wash your hair, Snivellus."_

_"Greasy,"_

_"Spotty,"_

_"Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's underpants?"_

_A Transfiguration lesson, where the teapot he was meant to be turning into a tortoise zoomed round the room, earning him a reproof from Professor McGonagall. As he attempted to master the spell, the teapot proceeded to dance, before changing into a pineapple, a top hat, a china poodle and finally a snake, which slithered off the bench._

_"Mr. Snape, kindly stop disrupting the lesson."_

_"But, Professor…"_

_"Five points from Slytherin."_

_Behind him, the four Gryffindors laughed quietly._

_"Aw, Snivellus, is the big, bad teapot giving you a hard time?"_

_He spun round in his chair to face his torturer, but the surge of power Severus had felt when James Potter was faced with the tip of his wand evaporated at the sound of McGonagall's voice._

_"Mr. Snape! Twenty points from Slytherin and detention tonight."_

_Needless to say, it greatly amused Potter and his lapdogs._

_"Oi! Snivelly!"_

_He looked warily in Black's direction, gripping his wand tightly, poised to duck and retaliate. Black sidled up to him, hands outstretched._

_"Look, Snivellus, no wand!"_

_Severus narrowed his eyes at his detested foe. His hatred for Black was second only to his hatred for Potter. Black leaned towards him in a conspiratorial manner._

_"You want to know where Remus goes every month, don't you, Snivelly?" he asked. _

_Severus curled his lip in a show of bored contempt, although this was a topic that interested him greatly. He'd seen Lupin sneaking off in the grounds, and his disappearance every month was an intriguing mystery, made more so by the pathetic efforts Lupin and his friends made at secrecy._

_"Don't you, Snivelly?" Black said in a sing-song voice._

_"Don't flatter yourself that I find either you or your little friends remotely interesting," Severus sneered._

_Black smirked._

_"Oh, but you do, Snivellus. You'd love to find out what we get up to. Well, if you poke the knot in the Whomping Willow with a stick tonight, you might discover something 'remotely interesting.'"_

_"I have no desire to indulge you in your little game," Severus spat, as he stalked off, leaving Black staring after him, an odd glint in his eyes._

_Yet Severus crept down to the Whomping Willow in the light of the full moon, and he prodded the knot with a stick, ducking under the frozen branches and into a hidden tunnel. The rest of that memory was a blur. Stealthily traversing the tunnel, hearing pounding footsteps behind, glimpsing beyond, the slathering, howling lupine beast. Snape loved the Dark Arts; he knew a werewolf when he saw one. Then, a rough hand on the back of his neck. Potter's pale face, Potter wrenching him away, back out of the tunnel, where he was fixed by fear. _

_"He was down the tunnel; he saw Remus, sir."_

_Dumbledore's face tightened. Severus wheeled around, pointing a shaking finger at Potter._

_"You…they tried to kill me, Headmaster!"_

_"No!" Two voices mingled in the air. Black burst in, just as Potter had shouted._

_"No!" Black panted, looking from Potter to Dumbledore. "It was me, Professor. James and Remus had nothing to do with it."_

_"Well, Mr. Snape, you have Mr. Potter to thank for saving your life."_

_"He planned to murder me, Headmaster."_

_Dumbledore had not listened. Potter was his favourite, his pet. Severus had had to promise not to tell anyone about Lupin. He had to keep their sordid secret. Black hadn't even been expelled. Potter and Lupin had got off scott-free. Murderous cowards._

_"You have Mr. Potter to thank for saving your life."_

His hands gripped the stone so hard that his knuckles shone white. That had been another thing for which he could never forgive James Potter. He'd suffered the tauntings, the humiliations, the burning jealousy that Potter was better than he was at Quidditch. He'd put up with the fact that Potter was popular, when in truth he was an arrogant bully. The fact that Potter had finally won over the mudblood Evans, the only girl the wonderful James Potter seemed to want who hadn't wanted him. He'd lived with all that, yet it was the knowledge that he was, in some way, indebted to Potter, that Potter had saved his life, that ate away at Severus. At least he'd been able to save Potter's wretched son's life, thereby cancelling the debt and leaving him free to detest Potter in peace. Even so, in a world where Snape wanted to pretend that James Potter had never existed, his son, his spitting image, was held up as a hero. Their saviour, the Boy Who Lived.

"But it wasn't good enough," Severus snarled. "Your wonderful son failed to vanquish the Dark Lord for good. He's back."

Yes, Voldemort was back, and Harry Potter had been useless to stop him. Now, it was up to Severus to work towards destroying the Master who had destroyed him. He straightened up, feeling strong enough now to Apparate back to Hogsmeade, where he'd use the fireplace in The Hog's Head to Floo to Dumbledore's office, where the Headmaster would be awaiting his report.

He felt for his wand in order to Apparate and then hesitated. It was beneath him, yes, but surely he deserved one little indulgence, after all that he'd been through, and all that was to come. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, and with an odd little private grin, Severus Snape danced a few steps of a jig on James Potter's grave before vanishing and leaving the night behind.


	7. Remus

August 1996

Mary Leighton eased her arthritic frame onto the little gardening stool she always out with her to the churchyard. She gazed thoughtfully at the patch of grass and the darkening stone and sighed, thinking of the time when she would join her husband in this corner of the graveyard. She knew she was being morbid, but she could feel her body slowly giving way, as cell by cell she seemed to disintegrate. It was a terrible thing, old age, and she found herself wondering whether it wasn't better to just go, quickly and unexpectedly, like her Bob had. She shook her head in annoyance with herself. Of course it wasn't. She'd had time that Bob hadn't had. She'd seen her grandchildren grow; she'd even seen the eldest get married. In fact, she would probably see her great-grandchildren; the first one was due in six months time. As she often did, she glanced at the grave of the young couple. They hadn't even been allowed to see their son grow up. The lad would be sixteen now, she thought. A new stone caught her eye. It wasn't a gravestone, but a plaque, set in the ground. Curiosity got her to her feet, and she made her way over to take a closer look.

_Sirius Black_ , it said. Mary frowned. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't for the life of her think where she'd heard it before. She read the rest of the inscription and pondered. They were odd words. The quotation was beautiful, but she wondered why the words "Ever Loyal" appeared on the stone. It made her think of the stone Bob had put up for his old Labrador in their garden, which read "Loyal Friend." Rain began to patter gently from the sky. Mary had always loved summer rain, but she turned away with regret and made her way indoors. Damp didn't agree with her anymore.

Remus strolled up to the graves, dressed in his Muggle finest (the sort of clothes most people saved for gardening). He studied the new plaque and managed a smile.

"I hope you don't mind, Padfoot. I know you hated things like that, but…" He shrugged. "It seemed the right thing to do."

He read the inscription again, mouthing the words. He'd chosen the quotation from a famous Muggle poet his grandmother had admired.

_"Calm and Deep Peace, in this Wide Air."_

He smiled softly again.

"I don't suppose anywhere where you are can be described as peaceful, Sirius," he muttered. "Especially if James is there. I pity you, Lily."

He raked his hand through his hair and was reminded as he did of a boy who used to do the same. Remus's gesture was one of self-comfort, however. He had no desire to appear windswept; he looked shabby enough these days. He wondered whether there was such thing as an afterlife. Twenty years ago, he would have laughed at himself. Ten years ago, he would have replied that there was such a thing as hell, and it was on earth, and he was living in it. Now, he didn't know, but the possibility was a comforting thought. He no longer desired death, as he had done in the dark years. Seeing Sirius torn out of life like that, when he did not want to die, even though his life was so miserable, had cured Remus of that morbid outlook for good. He knew, also, that he was needed. Harry needed him, now that he was the last one left. He and Harry had been the joint beneficiaries of Sirius's will. Remus frowned. The reading had only been a week ago. He now realised that for the first time in his life he was well-off. He looked down at his patched grey jumper and shrugged. He wasn't interested in clothes shopping.

"I hope you're happy, Padfoot. You were always trying to give me money."

With a jolt, he remembered an argument he'd had with Sirius over money many years before. Sirius had wanted to pay his share of something. He thought it might have been a present for Lily.

_"But I want to pay for it," Sirius growled in exasperation. Remus, too, let out a frustrated sigh._

_"And I don't want you to. I've got enough money to buy people Christmas presents, for pity's sake!" _

_Sirius tossed his hair out of his eyes._

_"I know you do, Moony," he said in a gentler tone. "But you could use that money for something else."_

_"Like what?" Remus said._

_"Like making yourself look presentable, for a start. Honestly, Moony, you look like you've robbed a House-Elf Second-Hand Shop."_

_Remus tried hard to look affronted and cast an eye over his offending garments._

_"Just because my clothes aren't fashionable, Sirius," he said._

_Sirius snorted._

_"Believe me, unfashionable doesn't begin to cover the multitude of…"_

_"All right. This isn't about my dress sense."_

_"No. It's about your refusal to let me help…"_

_"It's about my refusal to accept charity."_

_Sirius looked genuinely hurt. "It's not charity!"_

_"I'm poor; you're rich. You want to give me money. It's called charity, Sirius."_

_"I'm your friend; you need help. I can help you."_

_"I don't need help."_

_"Yes, you do!"_

_Both of them had their jaws set and their eyes narrowed._

_"You're so stubborn!" they said at the same time._

_Sirius glared at Remus, and Remus glared back, until their expressions cracked, and they burst into laughter._

_"You're useless to fight with, Padfoot," Remus grumbled._

_"Ha!" Sirius crowed. "So you'll let me pay for it. Please?"_

_Remus rested his head in his hands in defeat._

_"Okay, then."_

_"You know, I think it's utterly unnecessary that we have to go through this every single time."_

_Remus muttered something about self-dignity into the heel of his hand._

_Sirius patted him on the back. "Tell you what, I'll leave you all my gold in my will. Then you'll have to accept my money."_

_Remus sat up. "I'd donate it to a cat sanctuary."_

_Sirius gaped. "You wouldn't dare!"_

_"What would you do? Haunt me?"_

Remus had spent long years haunted by Sirius. He was still haunted, haunted by the memories of his friends, by the guilt that he had believed that Sirius could have been the spy, by the knowledge that it was his fault that Peter had been able to escape that night, allowing him to bring Voldemort back. Voldemort had lured Harry to the Department of Mysteries and had caused Sirius to die. Yet Remus could not allow guilt and grief to overcome him. It had threatened to, in the days and weeks following Sirius's death. But he knew he had to remain strong for Harry. He had someone now, who knew what he was going through. Remus had lost his last friend; Harry, the only parent he'd known. Harry needed Remus; Remus had experience with grief and loss. Harry had been too young to mourn his parents. Remus was the only one who could tell Harry what he desperately needed to know. Little things, like the fact that he had inherited his hatred of celery from Lily, or that James had never been much good at chess, either. It was only through Remus that Harry could come to know his parents.

Moreover, this time Remus was not alone. Even when Harry had been at the Dursleys' over the summer, Remus was constantly invited to the Weasleys' for meals, or to visit Andromeda, Tonks's mother, whom he had known a little through Sirius. Tonks was always good at cheering him up; in fact, he thought he might ask her to go clothes shopping with Harry and him. Even Order members he had not known well, like Hestia Jones and Emmeline Vance, made sure he was eating properly. In the days after Sirius's death, Remus had been bombarded with owls delivering banquets from Emmeline, Hestia and Molly Weasley. Harry, apparently, had fared the same. The two of them, bereft of family, had been adopted by the Order itself, it seemed.

Remus stared down at the graves of his lost family. It hurt, the death of Sirius having brought back afresh the pain of losing Lily and James. Remus felt like a part of himself was dead and buried there with them, and, in a sense, it was. Remus would never be fully whole again. And yet, he was, in essence, alive and had carved out a life and a future for himself. That future involved sadness, war and grief, he knew. But it also involved Harry and hope. He was not alone; there were people alive who cared for him, and who would not let him give up. He would not give up. He had to stand for Lily and James and Sirius, and make sure that Voldemort was not allowed to take over. He was ready to fight, and he was going to win.

Remus inhaled deeply. Calm and Deep Peace. If anyone deserved that, it was Sirius.

"I hope you're happy, Padfoot."


	8. Epilogue

Four figures moved amidst the graves, talking in low, reverent voices, until one of them gave a start, and the group walked with purpose towards a certain grave. They stopped level with _Robert Leighton_ , and _also Mary, wife of the above_ . Their eyes fixed on the nearby patch of earth and flickered over the letters above it. The bushy-haired young woman reached out and took the hand of the green-eyed man beside her, so that all four of them stood linked, still and silent, staring at the grave.

Harry Potter disengaged himself from Hermione Weasley's grip before relinquishing his wife's hand. Ginny Potter squeezed her husband's arm and smiled up at him, while her brother Ron shifted uncomfortably and let his gaze fall to his feet.

Harry hesitated. Hermione peered up at his face, trying to read his expression.

"We can go if you want, Harry," she said in a quiet voice.

"He's all right, Hermione," Ron said swiftly. "Aren't you, mate?"

Harry nodded and moved forward. Ron slipped his hand around his wife's swollen waist, and she, in turn, rested her hand on Ginny's shoulder, as they watched him kneel at his parents' grave.

It had been Mrs Weasley who had suggested the trip. Thinking about it, Harry realised he should have wondered where his parents were buried before, but it had never occurred to him. Yet, as soon as he'd heard of the graveyard, he'd known he must come here, although he wasn't sure why. He had asked Remus to go with him, but his former professor and now friend had been reluctant to do so.

"It is better to go alone," Remus had said.

Harry hadn't wanted to go on his own, though, and Ginny, Ron and Hermione had all volunteered to accompany him. He'd tried to persuade Hermione, at least, to stay at home, owing to her condition, but she had been adamant. He glanced back at them, and they all smiled their encouragement. He was so lucky. He had been denied his parents, but he had ended up with a loving and supportive family. He only wished that his mother, father and Sirius were part of it, as well. His eyes fell on the plaque next to the headstone, and a saddened smile crossed his face. Yes, Sirius had been ' _Ever Loyal'_ , both to him and his parents.

"Thank you," he said softly. All three of them had loved him unconditionally; all three had given their lives for them.

"You didn't die in vain," he said, digging his fingernails into the earth. "He's gone; we did it."

He hadn't believed there was a life for him after Voldemort's defeat, and yet there was, and he had been overwhelmed by how much love and happiness it contained.

"I'm married," he told the stone. "I've got a family, with the Weasleys, and Remus, and Ginny, Ron and Hermione." And Ron and Hermione's child, whenever it arrived.

'Late, like his father,' Hermione had remarked

Harry lowered his voice. "Ginny's going to have a baby; we've just found out. I promise I'll tell him or her about you." His child would be missing out on a set of grandparents, but Harry resolved to make sure it didn't want for any of the love owed to a child.

He got up and turned to rejoin the others. Hermione was leaning into Ron, who had his hands on her stomach. When they saw that Harry had finished, they made their way towards the gates. Harry strolled behind with Ginny.

"Are you okay?" she asked. He nodded, feeling subdued, but happy. They watched Ron help Hermione get comfortable in the front seat of the car. Apparition when pregnant was not advisable.

"Will you still love me when I look like that?" Ginny asked, and Harry laughed and kissed her until Ron honked the horn to make them stop. As they left the little village, Harry stroked Ginny's silky red hair and thought of their new family, and then of his parents, who must have sat like this, in ecstatic hope for the burgeoning life they had created. And then he thought of the inscription on their gravestone.

_Let this be our memorial, that we touched your lives._


End file.
